Tied- a reason
by creamtea-with-a-madman
Summary: At the gentle age of six, Sherlock finds himself diagnosed with neuroblastoma, a very rare sort of cancer. Trying to face death and live life a little at both ends, Sherlock is truly confused. And not only a little. All he really needs and wants now is a friend, a wish that should be granted...AU. Sherlock/ John's POV. Enjoy as long as you can! It won't be long... hehe
1. Chapter 1: How

**Disclaimer: I'm neither Moffat nor Gatiss, not even the BBC- just silly ol' me.**

So here I am then. This is me in a spare white bed, aching, tied up to as many catheters and tubes as one could imagine. At least more than I'd like to ever have imagined. But it's too late for my complaint now; I know what is going to happen. I know that this is it.

Greg said so earlier, that I won't last long here. So it must be true. I've put one thing to another and have figured that I'm going to die, but my parents mustn't know. So shush! It just depends on when. And I don't know yet what I am to think of that either. I mean, I guess you're not supposed to think about these sort of things anyway when you're barely seven. But me, well I'm different.

And I am going to die, in contrast to all the average six year-olds whose existence I am acquaintance to. They probably do typical six-year old-things, think about what they'll get for Christmas, or how pretty their Mom is, yadda, yadda. Nonsense, my Mom is the most beautiful lady in the world. Period. I wouldn't know anyone else who could compare.

The room is still empty, apart from a few of my things, another unattended bed, windows with a perfect view on roadworks, a washbasin and a bible hanging loosely on the wall, there is not much to look at. At least I have my dog, Redbeard.

He's not really a dog of course, that would be stupid. Just a cuddly toy. He can be helpful though, sometimes. I always have him by my side. My Mom bought him for me for when I refused to eat my food. Never did she know that my denial of it had entirely different reasons than defiance, surprisingly not even I did.

Mycroft would, under normal circumstances, most likely have made a joke about how I could have been so stupid as to miss an issue as evident as this a long time ago. His daft, feeble, vulnerable little brother. If he weren't so busy caring for me nowadays. And I wouldn't know about normal circumstances anyhow.

There was a time when we actually played together, the both of us. Either detectives or pirates. When it was my time to choose, I always chose pirates. Because pirates are cool. Obviously. And Mycroft? He chose the detective one, of course. He wants to be one when he grows up. But I rather doubt he'll get so far, he's too slow. His knees are knobbly. And he really is slower than me, could you believe that? I mean, I'm eight years younger and beat him? Like every time. A six-year old. That's some devil's play.

Daddy's wish that I'll grow up to be a strong young man once, with strengths, dreams and expectations, I guess I won't be able to fulfil. Which is a sad thought, really. I think he had many hopes for me, Sherlock, his youngest. Of course he tries to cover it up, like every good Daddy would. But I can see that he is disappointed. Let's just hope he isn't too mad in the end.

But truly, just take a look at me, I can't even walk. The cancer has gotten too far; it's everywhere, so my bones can't be the one exception. Of course. Because my body must hate me. Naturally the doctors always say that it's the Neuroblastoma that really hates me, but I won't buy that. I will not accept some strange cancer, that's so totally not cool. I'd rather battle my body than lose to a cancer with determination of steel inside of me. At least I know that my body is weak.

The doctor will check on me soon, or that's what I heard. What the nurses told me, when I was only listening half-heartedly, some time ago. My family is gone, but I can't quite put my finger on it where. Well, they'll come and visit me soon anyhow. Mycroft will make sure of that.

So that means I'm alone, in this sodding room. Alone with a bloody fever. Not that I wouldn't be accustomed to that now, but it just sucks. Honestly, it's crap. Well then, let the battle begin...

I already feel a yawn escaping my mouth reluctantly. You probably don't get how annoying it is for me, but I am intended to sleep like three-quarters of every day. And it's absolutely horrible. The worst thing about is that I really do, like a baby. My body needs the sleep, they say. To outsleep the exhaustion.

Besides, it seems to need it too very much at the time. There is no other reason why my eyes suddenly turn on me and I see nothing, black. Even my eyes betray me. But black is better than the fever. Than the hurt. I give in.

And then, only seconds later, I hear a sound. Very distant, indistinct. But a sound, a few different voices. My eyelids are too heavy to lift themselves up again. Which is a pity. I would like to know what is going on.

"... John, we'll just do another test and next you'll be a free man-" I am able to catch before I finally drift off to sleep. John, John, sounds oddly familiar. I know him somewhere, don't I? The free man. I like the sound of that.

But then I'm finally gone, my mind completely blank. I'm not sure I like that. I'd much rather be awake.


	2. Chapter 2: to

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, but I own a lot of unuseful information about neuroblastoma now, hooray! **

**Sorry for the long wait, but I literally sat in front of the computer for the whole of Saturday and edited 400 words over and over again, until my arms weakened. I also did a lot of research, but please tell me if you notice something wrong or have particular knowledge about this subject. It would help me a great deal! **

**And holy crap, you guys! Thank you so, so much! This is the bestest response I ever had for a first chapter, really, you guys flatter me! Hehe, you must be crazy, rock on! :) **

My brain feels like porridge. Or mud. Both. Definitely not good...Oh, I am awake then? I see. Brilliant.

I try to open my eyes a slit, in the hopes of making out where I am. But they both seem to have come to the mutual agreement that light sucks. Shouldn't I be the judge of that? Hell, this sort of stuff had not been in the job description. If I can't even control my brain, how do they want me to deal with all this crap?

All I can tell is that my heart is pounding rapidly in my chest, an uncomfortable sound, thumping far too firm. Far too deep, too tight. Bloody hormones. I can't wait until I start sweating like a pig- or even better, the diarrhea. FUN. FUN .FUN. Bloody, bloody hormones. Not to forget the headaches.

After all, my eyes finally decide to grace me with opening up, a few beams of sunlight piercing through my iris without pity. It feels surprisingly good, the pain. Better than before at least. It's something I can hang onto, that I can feel. Chemotherapy can make you forget these sorts of things.

But sadly, only seconds later, it is gone. And then I can see, clearer. I'm not sure whether I like what I see though. Because I spot myself, in the window glass. I look horrible, frail. My face is flushed, but my pale skin manages to still gleam weakly, faintly, almost green. The dark, violet circles under my eyes match up perfectly, a stark contrast. No hair. I had almost forgotten how thin I am.

I fear what I see, myself. Mummy always says that I shouldn't ever be afraid of anything. But there isn't a monster under the bed this time. It's me.

"Erm- are you okay?" I hear, a quiet enquiry from the other side of the room. I turn my head, trying to make out where the faint voice is coming from. "You look a bit, pale."

And then I see him. Not far away, a boy. A few years older than me, with warm blue eyes. Friendly. Kind. And staring. I must really look dreadful. "I'm okay, you?"

"John Watson." He states, looking equally screwed. And equally hairless.

"No, silly. I wasn't asking for your name." I give him a weak smile. "I'm Sherlock by the way."

He only nods. This must be his first time, here in the paediatric clinic. I've been several times. I should have just stayed at home. All the other times have just been a waste of time, honestly. Thrown out money. Surgery? Useless. Immunotherapy? Pointless. Not even to start with the Chemotherapy.

My parents had to give all they had, pay all the costs, without any result for one and a half years straight. I don't want to know how much they'll have paid by Christmas. If I'm even alive this Christmas.

I shudder, this is not a train of thought I'd like to carry on travelling with. So I refocus my attention on John again. John, John... the name. It's like I knew him somewhere. "John?"

"Yes... Sherlock, was it?" He looks at me from his pillow. He's sad. Why?

"Is this your first time- here?" I ask sincerely.

"Yes and no- I've been in another room before yours, but that's not important." He turns around in his bed, finding the other part of the room easier to look at. John really must be sad. Or I too ugly.

"Why aren't you there anymore?"

"She died." And with that the conversation is closed. At least for him. I'm persistent.

"How old are you?"

"I'm eleven."

"You look nine." I say, counting my fingers. Only three years younger than Mycroft.

"I know." He sighs. "Can I take a nap now? I didn't sleep at all, last night. And it hurts."

"No. No!" I say panicked.

"No?"

"Please?"

He rolls his eyes. "Fine."

* * *

I take another look at the small boy, Sherlock. He's weird. Normally I like weird, but I'm not certain yet what I should think of him. He's different, in a perplexing way. But I guess I- I just don't know. "How old are you?"

"Me?" He looks scared for a second. "I'm six."

"Oh." He seems older. Not physically, of course. I couldn't tell. But mentally- he just seems older.

"Where do you live?" He asks, his eyes all big. He really seems interested. Or maybe just bored. The latter is more likely, but I don't blame him. This place sucks. "Ridgmount Street, you?"

"Not far from there- Baker Street."

I nod and let my eyes close slowly, while I can't help a yawn from escaping. Perhaps I'll just go to-

"No, please don't leave me-" He exclaims, his little face terrified.

"Why not?"

"I don't want to be alone." Sherlock shifts awkwardly in his bed, uncomfortable.

"So, you want me to be your baby sitter?"

"No, I just want you to stay." He calms down a bit.

"I don't want company."

"I know, me neither, not really." Sherlock blinks. "Doesn't mean we don't need it."

Maybe this Sherlock kid isn't all that bad after all. But really, only maybe.

"And it's a good distraction." Sherlock nods. "You said you were in pain? Me too. But sleeping doesn't help, at least not in my case... When did you have surgery?"

"Who said that I had surgery at all?"

"Look at yourself. Then look at me again. It's pretty obvious, isn't it?"

"Alright, alright." I give him the symptoms of a smile. "Two weeks from now."

"I had surgery too, you know. Twice. It never worked out." Sherlock closed his eyes too for a second, only to reveal his dilated pupils after. "But never mind; let's hope it worked out for you...?"

"I don't know yet, but the doctors seem optimistic." John tugged his sheet closer. "Although there's still some Chemotherapy to be done. To fight the rest, they say."

Sherlock nods slowly, as I see his tiny eyes drooping close. Well, so much about our little distraction. If my voice weren't completely broken, I'd probably start singing a lullaby for his sleep's sake. But I'm still not as pathetic and it doesn't seem as if I need to be anyway. He's fast asleep.

Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes, I read. Maybe we'll get along after all. He's interesting. But I shouldn't be so optimistic, so quick. We can't be friends. One of us could be dead by tomorrow.


	3. Chapter 3: never

**Disclaimer: Don't own... you shouldn't be surprised anymore. Well if then, I would really start questioning your intelligence. **

**Only a small little chapter to lighten up the mood. And by small, I really mean small. I recently got over my writer's block though so feel sure that there'll be new chapters coming up soon. :) (*slow-claps herself*) **

**But still, wow, your response has been so kind! You are such amazing people- ugh *let me love you* I had never expected this. :3 *hugs***

* * *

I wake up, a strange sharp feeling surrounding my eyes, while my stomach aches with unease. I shouldn't be awake, not now. It's dark. And I wouldn't be, usually. Something must have woken me up. And I can hear-

"John, John?" A hesitant whisper, fearful, innocent. Nearly helpless. "John? Are you there?"

My first instinct is to ring for the nurses, but after one second of pondering I withdraw my arm. He sounds more afraid, scared, if anything. Definitely not in need of nurses tattering about, the bright light stinging back in his eyes, the noise. I might as well be wrong, but it never hurts to follow your gut feeling. At least it never hurt me yet. It's what I always do.

"Sherlock? I'm here."

* * *

Good. So, I'm still there. Breathing. Faltering, yes, but at least I am.

He's here with me, which must mean I'm not alone. It was merely a dream; it has to be. Just an illusion. Somebody's there for me; John. To fix me up. I don't have to be afraid of the dark, or of anything. I hope. I'm not alone.

There's something there which I can grasp. I'm not nothing. I am. Here.

But still, I feel alone. Empty describes it better. Somewhat grey, restless. It scares me. "Are you -sure?"

"Yes, of course I am. I'm here, Sherlock, hey."

I turn around in my bed, feeling lost. I don't know where this thing begins and where it ends. I can't navigate, I- don't even know where I am, in this tiny little room. "John, is it silly to still be afraid of the dark?"

"Why are you asking?"

"Because I am." I sigh. "You won't tell Mycroft, will you?"

"Who _is_ Mycroft?"

* * *

For a second, I see nothing. Absolute, pure nothing. I don't see Redbeard anywhere, nor do I see the favourite pirate poster over my little brother's bed. The one and only thing I can perceive is a sound.

_Fatal_. _Cancer_. _Death_. A voice ringing inside of my head, not letting me go. Over and over again.

I am still breath-less, I had been running only seconds before. Running to see if this were the truth. Because I will not accept this as right, this isn't fair. My little brother. My dear little-

He is the last person on earth to deserve this. Sherlock is so un-spoilt, so clever. And still such a child. A child. We still played together, only weeks ago. Everything was fine, normal even. How could a thing as this, cancer, even happen? And why did I not notice a thing? Under my very nose.

From very young age on, I have been told I was a role-model, the eldest brother. That I should take good care, that I'm responsible. Well, it seems that I have failed. Both times. William.

I'm to blame, the responsible Holmes.

And I can never make Sherlock's dream come true, being a real pirate. I wouldn't be able to anyway, but Sherlock would have gotten older. He would have grown more mature, who knew maybe he'd even want to be a detective one day, just like his big brother. But I guess he won't reach that age, not now. He sure would have made me proud one day.

I hope my parents will survive only having one son in the that's left. Only me.

I reach his bed and he reaches out for my hand as I look at him. He looks pale, he looks- sick. Ill. No.

"Myc? Myc? Are you there? I'm scared, Myco. It's dark."

I restrain my eyes from betraying me. I hope it's not too late.

* * *

"He's my- brother." I mutter under my breath, trying to ignore the image of Mycroft's face in my head. His eyes the evening he knew. Even Sherlock Holmes, the Mycroft-declared idiot, could not have missed them. The sorrow, all the pain, just because of me.

I don't know why I'm even still bothering. Cancer is shit. And it's slowly becoming me. Sherlock Holmes, the cancer with boy.


	4. Chapter 4: stop

**Disclaimer: I'm not even trying to be funny anymore...*sobs* Don't own.**

**Sorry, this took me another decade, oops. I hope you're alright with my little update-o-phobia, can't help it. But tell you what, it gets better. Honestly. Or at least hopefully, I will try.**

**And thanks so much for the wonderful response, bros. I cannot express enough how much I love you. You keep me rolling. **

I see a pair of nubby little fingers, a children's hand. Twitching for dear life. Oh look, it's my hand. I can't remember it being that small. Eww, I can see my veins though. Gross. That's not what I want to see first thing in the morning.

My eyes look a bit further up, finding their way to John's bed. And to the light. God, that stings. As if my head wouldn't hurt enough anyway.

But John's bed is empty, sadly. Where's he gone to now? Hopefully just to the bathroom and not another room entirely. As I said, I don't want to be alone. Let's hope I haven't scared him off.

I look at the clock and find that it's already half past three, although that's probably early for me. I wouldn't know, time doesn't matter to me much. All that does is that I'm awake, yet another day. Mummy's gonna be happy with me.

Oh, speaking of which, I think she wants to give me a visit soon. Somewhere around, when? - Oh, I've forgotten. Stupid. My brain. One could think I had some kind of brain disease, not neuroblastoma. But then, life is full of surprises.

I have been clever once, I think. If I am to believe Mycroft. But I haven't got much time left for being clever nowadays; I'm far too busy cancering. Or whatever that's called.

A nurse is entering the room, the irritating one. I use to call her the plague.

I know I'm always told that you shouldn't judge people, blah, blah, but her- that's a whole other calibre. She's never ever not in a jolly good mood and she talks about chemotherapy and radiation as if it were the most fun in the world. That I should stay optimistic, there's absolutely_ nothing_ to worry about.

Well tell you what, that's not it. She never had to sit through this bloody torment. Especially not with a nurse that is treating you like a toddler. Wanting to convince you of a lie.

I turn around, trying to look as far away as possible with my aching head. The disease sighs and goes to the other side of the bed, a frown on her face. I wonder how she's not used to my behaviour yet. The doctors always tell me that I'm an insufferable little smart-arse. At least someone seems to get it.

"Hm, how are we today?" She says, checking my temperature with a hopefully feigned smile on her face. I keep silent. She only nods, thinking her part. "Well, you have to take your tablets soon, him?"

I prop myself up a little; my still twitching, clumsy fingers picking up the tablets one by one out of her firm hand. Cyclophophamide, Carboplatin, Vincristine. All silly names for chemotherapy tablets really. Why didn't they just call them useless anyway and let that that be it? But hey, I'm doing this for Mummy. And Daddy. Maybe even Mycroft.

"Where's John?" I ask, at both ends trying to escape swallowing this deadly poison and really wanting to know where John is buggering around.

The curse only shrugs, smiling at me reassuringly. "He must be-"

"Here." He says, waving, apparently just back from the loo. Phew, close one.

I can see him walk back to bed. So, he's still able to do that? Cancer can't have come far then yet, not even to the bone marrow. He should count himself lucky. I'm such an embarrassing sight. And I have to ask someone to guide me to the bathroom every time, in a wheelchair. They can't carry me that far, it would only hurt.

I swallow them one after another, which makes my throat feel really itchy. He looks at me, with a weird expression on his face. Kind of indefinable-weird. I don't know. Not happy.

"Do you want some?" I ask politely, trying to cover up my reaction to the medicine. I shudder.

"No, no- thanks. I had mine already." He says, half of a smile crossing his face. John goes back to bed and I see his hand twitching in unison to mine as he slips under the blanket. He looks tired, with dark circles under his eyes. "Only minutes ago."

Oh, I see then. "Did you puke?"

"Do you seriously think I will answer that question?"

"It was more of a rhetorical question anyway." I look away embarrassedly.

"Do you even know what rhetorical means?"

"Maybe."

"So no...?"

"Okay, no. I only picked that up from Mycroft somewhere and thought it sounded clever. But this just made me look like an idiot." I shake my head, as I feel the medicine kicking in. Sinking in. Ouch.

"That's because you are." He smiles against the pain.

"Hey, you barely even know me- you're not supposed to judge people-"

John giggles. "You're weird."

I look at him, eyes half closed. "You too."

The pest leaves the room, but not after checking on us both for one last time. And then we're alone. Me and John. It doesn't even feel that uncomfortable. A bit weird, but goodly weird.

I see him close his eyes, perhaps I should just let him sleep. But hey, what's life without a bit of fun. Even for me, the sicko. He breathes in and out evenly, in an even rhythm that is. Almost asleep.

I try to catch out for the remote of his bed, but it's a bit too far. Maybe if I stretch out a bit that way, I- yes, that's it. I have the remote in hand. And I press the first button that I can reach.

Suddenly John's back floats up, making John moan. "Sherlock, please, this isn't even remotely funny."

"Oh yes, this is very _remotely_ funny." I say, pressing yet another button. This time his back is falling back down again. He looks so funny this way.

"Sherlock, can you please just-?" He says, clearly irritated. Maybe he'll be calling me 'the plague' soon. Hopefully not. I mean, I never had a real nickname, but plague isn't the most favourable one I'd like to have.

His feet take an unexpected turn. "If you don't stop soon, I will-" And back down again. Why haven't I noticed the use of hospital beds before? This is probably the most fun I ever had.

"You didn't want it any other way!" He exclaims heroically, taking over control of my bed, remote in hand. Let the war of beds begin. And let's see who'll back down first. I'm sure it'll not be me. I feel invincible.


	5. Chapter 5: being

**Disclaimer: Praise the lord that I don't own Sherlock. Because seriously, only god knows what I'd do with the characters... hehe hehe**

**Okay, here we go, it's smexy chapter time. OLÉ! But no, nothing smexy in here. I write a fanfic about children after all. Would be weird...**

***shudders* Now then, I finally managed to get my ass up, I'm so proud of myself. I have one excuse, but only for the 5 days that I had to spend offline. OFFLINEEEEEEEEE**

**Nevertheless, I do now find myself in the risky situation of saying I'll be updating more frequently the next days, but don't trust me. I'm actually Mary. (*gonna attempt to kill ya boyfriend, husband* be prepared) **

**Special thanks go to the loveley people of tumblr who helped silly ol' me to find the word IV. Honestly, I'm so dumb-uaaaah- and to everyone reading and reviewing and favouriting. I love y'all so much. (And I stalk you, just so you know. I read all your profiles. I know your life, each little detail. *stalkery-stalk-stalk*) But no, I just love you. Thanks for the support! **

* * *

"Ouch, ow- that hurt." I flinch as my back gives a loud crack. "Is it, supposed to sound like that?"

"No, sorry." John sighs. "Sorry, that was not-"

"It's- okay, really." I smile at him painfully. "It's not much..."

John frowns, but doesn't say much more as he lies down the remote. He gives me a sympathetic glance, one of these things you're ought to feel reassured from, but it only makes you less comfortable. I should know, I get these all the times. Preferably with the doctors they seem to be in trend. "Are you sure you're-"

"Haha, gotcha!" I yell cheerfully as John's hips pop up, my eyes twinkling. Older people are so easy to trick. They always think they have the upper hand and that's exactly the way you should let them think, encourage them to think. In tiny little boxes. After all it's not called child's play for nothing. Children are like spiders at the centre of a web.

Now, that's weird. Where did that thought come from? I should keep it for later. Sounds clever.

"Toot-toot!" The influenca whoops, stretching her head through the door with a fading smile on her face. "Am I just silly or have I just heard-"

Whatever is in her hand crashes to the floor. Which is nothing. But her face still definitely looks like it, absolute terror. I guess we've done something wrong. Though I don't think I care. This was fun.

"Please do tell me how you want to explain this, boys?" She says, the sickeningly sweet smile ever so present. I'm going to go bonkers in this hospital once. Very soon.

"Not-" John says, signalling for me to get out as quickly as bloody possible. Stress on the bloody, I think we both want to escape her as quickly as we can. But heh, well, there's one problem. We can't flee. I can't walk.

But he can, hopefully.

"Shush!" I whispers, shooing him away. The best of me tries to be as selfless and martyr-ish as it can, to not feel the self-pity weighing down on me. But that's harder than I thought it would be. I don't wanna stay here with that beast of a woman. Not today.

But John, being the moron that he is, doesn't get it. Oh, the stupidity. I wish I could be home. Everybody understands me there. At least we, the Holmes family, we're clever.

Oh, gosh, John. This would still be stupid even if the age difference were in his favour. Not mine.

"What-.?" So stupid. Agh. I sigh.

"Go." I whisper, still signalling wildly, but it still doesn't seem enough. The epidemic has gotten to the door, closing it swiftly. With one of these self-confident grins on her face. I really wish I were somewhere else.

"Boys, you do know that you could have hurt each other very seriously, do you boys?"

"Yes, ma'am." We both sing in a rather reluctant choir.

"Especially Sherlock- swear to never do that again. Pinky promise?"

I shake my head, this is like so uncool. I do not do pinky promise, never have, never will. So I just nod my head and stretch up my fingers a bit wretchedly, hopefully an indicator of my weakness. She just nods back, trying to look grim, but you know. Doesn't work, as usual.

"Okay, boys, off you pop. You've been in here for ages; you should get out a little, catch some fresh air. Shoo!"

"But wasn't- isn't it night?" I ask, quizzically.

She keeps silent for a moment, but not longer than that. "No, I'm afraid that must be the pills talking."

"Hm." John huffs. "Didn't know pills could talk."

I try to dismiss that thought instantly. I don't want to imagine stuffing the upset tablets down my mouth while they can scream at me not to, with big red pained eyes. It's already hell on earth. And it's not as if they don't do that anyway, every time. In my mind.

"Aren't we supposed to get more sleep?" I ask, feeling a bit dizzy. "We just had-"

"No." She states. "Please go."

"Okay." John sighs, giving her a weirded out glare. "Let's go then."

John walks to the door, reopening that traitor with a bit of trouble. His hands are twitching too. Noticing that he forgot to help me, he turns around abruptly from the door, shaking his head. "What do I do?"

"You better get him into that wheel chair." She points. "Over there. Then you're free to go."

John nods curtly, before taking the wheelchair into closer examination. It rattles. This doesn't sound too good.

"Wait, I'll help you." She smiles. "One second- there we go."

The wheelchair now stands in front of me, fully set up. I have to admit, it looks rather good with all the stickers on the sides and the sparkling wheels. But I better not let John know this; he'll only think I'm a girl.

They get me on that amazing thing and then we really are free to go. Well, that's what I thought a few seconds ago. It seems that John is, like me, unable to stir this little jetpack into the right direction. My reason is that my arms fail after a while. And John? I guess he's just stupid. But at least the seat's comfy.

"Okay, hmmm..." Her eyes gleam as she thinks. "I'll just get you two to the common room, what do you say?"

I shrug, John nods. So it shall be then. I don't really care. John will have to walk right behind us though, controlling both our IVs. Let's hope things don't get too tangled.

We cross a few open doors and rooms silently while slowly finding our way through the hallway, having just come out of the elevator. I feel silly. But when I take a peek into one of the open rooms, I don't feel much better. I see a lot of old people, mainly old people really. Not much else.

Nothing at all more than grey, all in all, alone. I wouldn't say anyone has visited them in months; they certainly don't look like it. But you can't see a lot of their faces anyway; they're blocked by big ugly tubes and medical stuff. I don't know exactly what they are, but surely something medical. It's always only medical. The only one else in there is the nurse. You see, only medical.

Nothing is the thing they do most of the time. Staring at the wall. Waiting. Probably. They don't smile. They don't even talk. I do admit, I hate talking sometimes, but falling into this state of utter meaninglessness must be hurtful. Somehow, I have to think about grandmother. I'm happy she's still happy. I can only hope she has loads of fun left until she turns into something like me.

But hey, I have some reconciliation. Although it rather makes me feel uncomfortable than reconciled with my existence; I won't die old, I'll die young. Now that came out wrong. Or maybe just perfectly right. I don't know. What is my life...

We finally reach the room as I take a look at John. Completely untouched by this. I wish I could be; he must be very strong. Emotions are unnecessary after all.


	6. Chapter 6: a

**Disclaimer: fat, fat, fat, fat, fat, fat, fat, fat, fat, fat, fat, fat, fat, fat**

**Yay, insanity :). I have conquered our ingenious play, so now I'm back again, in good spirits and the hope for loads of new chapters to be published. But it really is only a silly hope, since I'll have a two week placement in a bookstore, starring this Monday. So time will be, as it always is. Precious. **

**Please do enjoy and be happy. ;) That's all I care for. *hugs* **

* * *

I must say, I don't look bad in my little suit. If Mum wouldn't scold me for it, I'd probably be squeaking with happiness right now. But since my Gramps 'passed away' as they call it, I guess that'd be a bit inappropriate.

I was told by Mommy that we're going to give him his last peace, or something, and am glad we do. I like him a lot, he's my big bear. Grumpy bear, though I love him all for it. He doesn't talk much, but he's always there. I hope he'll be back soon. At least for my birthday.

But for now, giving him some peace seems only fit.

Mummy opens the door and I step out into the world. Rainy world. Really rainy. Dad calls it 'funeral'.

* * *

Mom and Daddy stand in front of a big stone, their hands clutch tight. They don't look happy, which I don't understand. Giving somebody peace should be a good thing, no? Then why's my Dad crying?

I've never seen this before; Daddy's always the strong one. He's just Dad, Daddy's don't cry. Adults don't cry. Or at least that's what I thought. I don't get this.

All in all, people don't seem very happy. This is not what I had thought of when giving peace. I wouldn't really want this for myself, for when I'm gone for a while. It's a bit weird, isn't it? With everybody being so sad. I'll have to ask Mummy about this later, I'm so confused.

Granny's thumb strokes the stone for a last time, as a tear rolls down her cheek. Yet another thing I don't understand. Why do people cry because of a simple stone? Mummy sniffles, Daddy too. And I can feel it too somehow. Not a nice feeling.

I don't like funerals; they make people sad, including me. Mum really owes me an explanation.

* * *

"_John? JOHN?" It sounds desperate but also far away. I don't think I have to- "Wake up!?" _

"_John, can you hear me?" I hear another voice. This one sounds calmer. "It seems he hasn't-"_

_It's distressing, this feeling; I don't wanna stay _here _anymore. But then I'm back again, in the darkness. I don't know which one is worse. _

* * *

It tastes like chocolate, but also like caramel, so sweet and- ugh, really hard to bite. I don't know how to describe it, it just tastes good. Very good. Sweet. Hmm...

"What is this?" I ask, making my sister's grin only grow wider. "It taftez duhlicioufz."

"Chocolate fudge. I brought it from my new boyfriend, Kell-ian. S-He thought you might like it." Harry still holds up a brave smile, but I can see a bit of her concern.

I nod and grin. "Thanks."

My eyebrows meet. "She?"

"No, of course no-" Her cheeks grow slightly red, as she tries to avoid my eyes. "No, him. Kilian."

I gratefully ignore the sudden name change. "When will we get to meet him? I wanna say thanks."

"S-soon." Now I can finally see her become nervous.

"Harry- darling, can I borrow the laptop for a sec?" I hear Mom from up above. It's more of a rhetorical question; she'll take it either way. We all know her far too well.

"Yes, of cou-" Harry's irises widen. "MUM, NO!"

"MUM!?" She shouts running up the stairs in a hurry.

For a few seconds I hear nothing. Then something shatters to the floor, hopefully not the laptop. I would really like to know what's going on.

* * *

_Warm. A hand. Feeling- _

"_John?" It's small, very small. And warm. Good. "I'm here, you know. Sherlock." _

_It wriggles a bit, as the other searches for my forehead. "You're very warm, are you sure you're okay?" _

_I don't answer, but squeeze the hand instead. It seems content enough with it. The touch fades for a second _and it's cold. My eyes jerk open. I can't see anything and it's dark. And cold.

_Thankfully, I do now see a face framed with curls only so far away from me. And open hands, with something as fluffy filling them up. A soft toy. A dog. _

"_Here, take Redbeard. I don't need him anyhow." I feel his hand again. "He always helps me feel better." _

_Something soft is placed by my pillow and I can feel it tickle my cheek."Goodnight!" _

_Now the touch is finally gone, but I don't feel too bad. I still have this soft little thing. As my eyes start to close again, I can't help but wonder. Since when do people care?_


	7. Chapter 7: superman

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything apart from insanity, wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee :) **

* * *

His breathing is steady and almost completely silent when I roll up to his bed. It seems he has fallen asleep again, a thing I can't judge him for. I should sleep too a little, I think. But I just don't want to. Plus I'd have to ring for 'her'- I don't feel up to it. At least not right now.

I have to admit, I was a little scared when John just fell unconscious, out of the blue. At first I simply thought he was joking, we were doing that thing a lot along the evening. And it also scares me that I don't know why, just nothing. One second to another John lay on the floor, barely breathing. His chest barely moving.

I don't even know why I was so scared, but then we don't know a lot. Or rather, people never let us know much. I don't know what is inside of these little chemo pills, I don't know what effects they'll have and do to me this time. I'm only ever told that it's going to be fine. It won't hurt. Shhush...

And then it does hurt. And you do vomit. And you do cry. Only to let people tell you the same old thing over and over again. Because it's always fine, as it seems. I hate this hospital, this whole thing.

John looks comfortable as I hear him hum a little in his sleep. I wish I could sleep like that. My dreams end up in nightmares most of the times; I have to think of so many things. But then, John does have my Redbeard. Mycroft doesn't call him Radbeard for nothing.

I feel the tiredness even overwhelming me, for a little while. But still, I want to stay here. I don't want to leave. John looks so peaceful that I can almost feel it too, but only almost of course. And I can't help but wonder why I care.

* * *

I hear a song when I wake up, a gentle hum on the nurse's lips. My eyes wander around the place searching for Sherlock, hurting a bit round the edges. And then I find him. At my side, fast asleep. It looks as if he nodded off, while watching me sleep. Sounds less creepy than it should.

My toes feel a bit wobbly and I play with them a little until I can feel something again. Sherlock's still not awake, so I snap my finger as loud as I can, with no real effect. Well, let him sleep. Although, I don't want to be alone for too long. I always have to think of her. The one who died.

I hope I won't hold up for that title soon. 'The Boy who lived' would be much more preferable. But then I'm not Harry Potter. Far from him.

It's a pity really; we don't die in honour, or have a last dramatic battle for life and death. We just die silently and then we're gone. Another person dead. Not surprising for cancer patients. Nothing ever surprising. Although we might be surprised. Like 'oh, I'm dead?' It might happen any second.

I muster Sherlock upside down, noticing things I never did before. He doesn't look so scary from this perspective, quite cute actually. Well, not cute, just nice. Somebody nice. But I shouldn't let myself be ruled by my instinct. He could be the devil in cuddly form.

But I think he must care, maybe he really does. That would be quite nice actually, to have someone there. To rely on. But I don't know yet, we'll see. I should at least thank him for the teddy dog sometime soon; it would be a first step.

"Hey, Sherlock hey?" I whisper. "You awake?"

"Uh, what?" He rubs his eyes and yawns. "Yes, 'course... What's your problem?"

"Err, honestly, what happened? I can't quite put it together, what-"

"You fell. I don't know you, just lay on the floor. It all sort of happened in a finger snip. And that's all that I know, enough?" Sherlock frowns.

"Did you notice anything else, any signs?"

"No, as I said, I was too busy- with you. Normally I would have, I swear. I was just a bit caught off. "

"Now that's definitely cute."

"I hate being called cute." His frown intensifies. "I may be a lot of things, but cute is definitely not one of them."

"So, what are you then if not cute?" A little smile tugs at the corner of my mouth.

* * *

Oh man, where to begin? I'm cool, obviously. People could easily exchange me for something like, a zombie superhero. Hey- that's not even a bad idea. Though it might be a bit complicated with all the medical stuff, equipment and such, I still have my little helper-John to patch me up. Yep. Good idea.

"I'm a superhero." I murmur quietly, only for John to hear. "Hey, don't laugh at me. Superhero-buddies aren't supposed to do that."

"Oh, okay." John tries to suppress his urges, but fails. "What's your superpower then?"

"I can go and deduce shit about people."

"Shit?"

"No, not shit." I shake my head eagerly. "You know, I saw something like that in a funny film. Somebody in it carried my name, that's as much as I can remember. And they were together in a team and solved mysteries and everything -and they were cool."

"Aha."

I nod once more. "Yes, I wanna have that sort of thing."

"Friendship is not a superpower, Sherlock."

"It is to me."

"Okay. Let's make a deal then." John takes a pause to be able to think and then whispers with a little sparkle his eyes: "You can have mine, my superpowers. It's been very long since I let them be used by anybody, so use them with great care, okay? They're very unique."

"You can have mine too, you know. If you want them." I whisper back, smiling. I think I have a friend.


	8. Chapter 8: five

**Disclaimarrrrrribaaaah:** **Je no owne pas das Rechte-ding, you know.** **Moffat's taking gööd khear ov dat.**

**Author's note: ha ha haha *laughs on nervously* sorry for taking such a shitload of time for this, really sorry. *offers warm muffins* I still love everyboy who reads this with all my heart, my little bunnies. And I hope you have the bestest of times :)**

The doctor enters the room, all smiles and kindness, with his white coat dazzling me in the same way and colour as his teeth do.

Oh, yes. I had almost forgotten he existed. It feels like this all the time though, like being separated from the world and then suddenly bam! Oh yeah, there are such things as me, humans. If there were any other way I'd choose it. I'm not a people's person. Family is good. John is good. But the rest can all stay away. All they ever do is bother me anyway.

He goes up to John's bed first, which is very understandable. John's the one that fainted, not me. And I do not want the doctor to be near me anyway, he can be more annoying than even the 'plague'. Although I must admit I felt quite close to the plague the last days. She helped us out loads.

When it comes to the Doctor, he is just plain annoying. He makes weird jokes concerning our illnesses I don't quite understand. Nor do I want to. And he asks questions, questions, questions. "How are we feeling today, litle un'?" Is probably the best example for that, for I get to hear it every day. And still don't get it. I'm not we, that's just weird.

They both speak just below a whisper and give me weird side-glares, which make me feel like they're talking about me behind my back. But since my back is facing the wall, I don' think that's possible.

"Okay, I'll just-" John nods quietly, looking down to his feet, concealed by the blanket. The doc finds his way over to my bed, starting the same old procedure i have learned to so dearly love.

I close my eyes just for one second of peace, before I return to answer all his questions. To remind me that I can't just tear the tubes off and run away. As much as I'd want to.

* * *

It's dark. So it must be night, evening at least. Or they just closed the curtains again.

I don't really remember how much time has passed since the doctor came to check on us, my last memory. All I know is that I just feel like, like gibberish. Something like that. There is nothing much in my brain but mulch. And a somewhat uncomfortable feeling, everywhere. I don't know, some sort of nausea perhaps and a very weird ache just in my tummy. Must be the reason why I am awake right now.

I feel just like puking. The nausea reaches its limits, up to my throat. Getting tighter with every breath I take, my lunges decide to give up on me. And then I can't breathe. I can't bloody breathe. John. Where's the plague when you need her?

"John, I ch-" My voice gives out too; there's nothing left in me. "joh-" It's completely quiet now. Just a helpless muted croak lost somewhere in the corner of the room. I feel it getting less and less bearable. And closer, so close, no air. I could just give in to it. But I couldn't- Not now. I have a friend. I have- something.

No.

My eyes fall shut. I hope they find me. Before-

I can see a little room, a door opening up inside my mind and a light, so clear. All bells are ringing and heaven breaks lose all around me, but I don't care. It's so bright. I can almost touch it.


	9. Chapter 9: easy

My sleep is disturbed for just a second, as I hear a team of nurses hurry into the room. My eyes snap open in reflex, as I can see them all surrounding one bed. Oh, it's not mine, not my bed. I'm somewhere else. That's good, I guess. I can relax. I'm out of trouble.

But it must mean something bad too. Something, something- well, it can't be all that bad if I have completely forgotten. Mummy always tells me this if I should forget something that I just know is very important, but I can't exactly tell what it is. Just like now.

I can see down on the whole affair, the noise gaining more and more distance, me losing the busy people out of view. But still, there is one thing I can see as clear as the night. Something small and cold, a body as inanimate as death itself. No breath rises in their chest. I wonder who it might be, there's no hair to make them out.

And I do wonder too why me, the little Sherlock Holmes, is forced to witness this scene? What have I to do with this person's death? This is terrifying.

Where is John?

And why is it so cold? Freezing. John.

...

His breathing has fully stopped now, I hear one woman shout out of the door. And his pulse rate is very slow. I hear so many things, so much noise around me that I can't concentrate on one thing at a time. I just know that he isn't well. And that I should have changed this when I could, had I not been away. But how am I supposed to know this sort of stuff? When to be at what spot at exactly what time? I'm confused about my name sometimes, what do they expect?

I look at his tiny face, resting happily. He's almost smiling. I have only once seen him this pleased, when we had our little 'fight'. Although I'm not sure whether this right now can qualify as pleased or just as plain scary. It's both in a way, I guess.

But I'm definitely scared. Just scared that it'll happen again. Not again. I couldn't stand it. I don't want another person to die again, just because of me. Not _Sherlock_.

So I stand here as I watch them carry him away, his little arm falling down lifelessly just like a last wave goodbye. I remind myself of the last words that I heard Sherlock mutter, so that I should never forget them. He was talking in his sleep, almost mumbling.

But I heard them, I heard him murmur out words of a dream, softly. It were happy words and it still makes my stressed face lose a smile for a second, when I have to think about his little sleepy outcry of euphoria. He almost squeaked with happiness. Maybe he dreamt about us, he mentioned my name once, I guess. But maybe that was just me, imagining things I'd like to hear.

I stand alone in the room now, there's no one in here but me, waiting. For the sentence that has to be dropped in at least an hour or so, even less. I reckon. Ten minutes later have me standing silently, only screaming the words I'd very much have liked to say. In my head only, of course. I don't want anyone to hear this but me and him. A nurse picks me up and lays me down to bed. I still feel alone, even now.

There wasn't enough time for me to say goodbye. There was no goodbye. So there can't be death right? That's not how it goes.

My feet find their way over to Sherlock's bed, more numbly than nimbly. I crawl under the duvet of my friend's, covering my head under the blanket. It smells of him. It's almost as if I could say hello again.

I'll really have to start watching that TV-thing Sherlock was talking about, it might help a bit. My fingers clutch tight to the little soft toy, Redbeard. Maybe I'll keep him.

* * *

_25 years later, John Watson_

It's been very long since I last visited my friend; actually I can't recall visiting him at all these last years. It's a shame, really. One is to take good care of a good friend.

So now, that I have been invalided home from Afghanistan, I see my chance and take it as quickly as I can. Mummy has already told me that it's a bad idea, that I shouldn't go see him. He had always had a 'bad influence' on me, especially in my younger years. But I couldn't possibly say no. It has been too long.

He'd be mad at me, surely. I just know he'd be. If I should disappoint him again.

And I don't want to do that ever again. He's been the only reason why I didn't give in; the only reason why I took the chance the doctor gave me, another operation. The only reason I survived. He's my motivation, still. Even in Afghanistan. And also the main cause why I happened to find my favourite TV-show in "Sherlock", a thing of the BBC that's unfortunately not running on TV anymore. Either way, I got all the three seasons.

I'm so happy to see him again. He'll be so surprised.

The cabbie driver looks at me with a grin as we make our last turn into the last street before we stop. I guess he only smiles at me this enthusiastically because of the money, but I don't make anything of it. Everybody's selfish in a way.

I fetch him his money and he nods at me happily. The car drives away in no time and then I'm there.

I'm not sure I want to be here again now. It's been so long, I don't know what he'll say. From one second to the other I was gone to do my civil duty, without even telling him. I should have thought about it.

My feet take me to where they have to go, passing Baker Street in a hurry. That's not where I have to go anyway. The graveyard is more like it.


End file.
